


What Has Changed

by hystericalwomannovelist



Category: The Good Wife (TV)
Genre: 3x18, Episode Related, F/M, production difficulties, strike again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-14
Updated: 2014-05-14
Packaged: 2018-01-24 16:45:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1612211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hystericalwomannovelist/pseuds/hystericalwomannovelist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The only way to make it better is the only way to make it worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Has Changed

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my mchart fangirls for talking through endless iterations of headcanons around these two assholes with me :]
> 
> (Takes place immediately after the scene when Diane comes to his place in 3x18)

_It's me missing you, and hoping you feel likewise._

She has confessed her heart to him, and that is not what she came here to do. She did not realize herself until she said it, just how much she missed him, and now it is hanging unanswered in the air. He is watching her intently, considering her words, and that is only fair; but there is only so long she can bear the weight of it before she... _what?_ \-- takes it back, gets up to leave, kisses him again?

He saves her from discovering what insane idea might possess her next, responding at last with his usual forthrightness. "I do miss you, Diane." 

He is still staring at her and it is no easier after this affirmation. It is her turn now to say something, but she has already said the only thing that makes any sense right now. There must be a _so what_ to her declaration, but she hasn't figured it out yet. 

His hand has not left her since their kiss, and she is aware of little more than his fingertips running lightly up and down her arm, resting at her elbow. She isn't thinking clearly, but it isn't the alcohol now. The wine that made this seem like such a good idea has mostly worn off.

She slips off her shoes, curling her legs beneath her. She slides back against the chair so that she can no longer feel his breath on her skin, but there is still the intimacy of his fingers now laced between hers. 

It has been a year, but this so quickly feels familiar. Memories of sitting here in the morning, sipping coffee, wearing only his shirt, unable to stop touching each other...

For a moment it feels like a routine they have easily fallen back into, if they had been together long enough to develop routines. Two months; a few days. Not much time if you looked at it that way. But for a moment it feels as if nothing has changed.

"Why tonight, Diane?" he asks. "Why just come over?"

"I did try to call first," she laughs lightly, as if that made this any less crazy. 

"Oh -- my cell's charging upstairs."

She knows this is no time for hypotheticals, and it is not her place to ask questions now, but she does anyway. "If you had picked up, would you have told me not to come?"

"I would have told you I had someone over." He takes a long drink, considering. "And I would have told you to come an hour later."

She smiles slightly, looks away. 

"But why tonight?" he presses her gently.

"Because I used to," she shrugs. "And after a couple glasses of wine, I thought I could again. But it's not like that anymore."

He mulls this over for a long while again, then nods slowly. "Yeah. You can."

She understands him, or thinks she does, and it makes her heart ache worse than rejection. He doesn't deny that it can't be like it was. But he will accept her even if those are the only terms she can offer.

And she goes quiet, because there is nothing to be said about that. There is no point in saying 'I shouldn't have come' now, because she has, and she is not leaving. But she shouldn't have, she thinks; that's the truth. Now that she's here, only pleasant sorts of lies come to mind. 

"Maybe we could--" She starts and then trails off. Could what? Nothing has changed.

It is going to end just the same way, and they both know it. Still, they meet each other's eyes again and exchange sly smiles. Maybe they could, and it's going to hurt like hell if they can't. But there's no going anywhere but through this now.

He stretches his arm across the back of her chair, his fingertips lightly grazing her shoulder. She relaxes into his touch.

He has to be the one to say it.

"Maybe we could keep it casual this time." 

It sounds like a lie, but it is the right lie.

She leans forward and kisses him again softly, lips barely brushing, but lingering. Remembering, although it had never been like this. They had no reason for caution before -- or at least they had not heeded it.

She didn't come here to play with his heart; she wasn't thinking of his heart at all. She hadn't been thinking of hers, for that matter, either. All she wanted at the beginning of the night was to laugh, feel dazzling, get slightly drunk, and go to bed with someone. If not Jack, then someone. Kurt, then, because he was safe and separate and the sex had always been good -- and because she expected him to jump when she called. That was why she had come here.

But that is not what she found. She is cold sober now and she doesn't feel a bit dazzling, and they're headed for his bedroom, yes, but _not like that_. Now she doesn't care what happens; she only wants him. He is kissing her with a need she can only answer with need, and he is aching for her and the way to make it better is the way to make it worse. But she wants desperately to care for his heart. She would, now, if she could.

Her feet blindly remember the way up the stairs to his bedroom and it's a lucky thing because she wouldn't pull away from kissing him now for anything. 

She backs into the bed and toward the headboard, trying to pull him after her, not wanting to break contact for an instant, as if he supplied the very air she breathed. He follows willingly, curling along her side, the palm of one hand running over her from stomach to hip. But a moment later he pulls back, propping his head up on his other hand.

She twists her fingers in the placket of his shirt, trying to pull him to her again. He resists, staring back at her lovingly. He is not questioning her now, only accepting her -- and this look is exactly what could break her heart and she needs his lips on her again before it does. He goes on staring and she thinks it is a form of torment she has coming, after all, and if he needs this she wants, if only for one night, to be what he needs.

But she still has to keep her hands busy, unfastening the remaining buttons of his shirt. He allows this, in turn undoing the tie of her blouse. She clutches the fabric of his shirt in her hands as his fingers trace the edges of the neckline, barely flitting beneath. She wants his hands on her, his lips on her, but he goes on staring at her, _adoring_ her.

 _'You're my hero,'_ he had said in place of goodbye, and that is exactly how he is looking at her now.

She closes her eyes to it, feels unworthy of it. She tugs down on his shirt, lightly but insistently, and finally he does lower his face to hers, cheek pressed against cheek, his lips moving along her jaw, then her ear. She squirms against him, wants to feel his weight on her, but he remains still. He lets his hand drift toward her breast now, lightly cupping her through the fabric, his thumb idly stroking her soft skin.

"Kurt," she whispers, and her voice comes out dry and hoarse, surprising her. She needs him, needs just the contact, needs him heavy around her and inside her and she doesn't care if she comes so long as he gets and stays closer. "What do you want?" she asks. 

Slowly he kisses his way down her neck to her collarbone, his hand moving back to her hip, and back around her waist, fingertips kneading her lower back. Her body jerks involuntarily; he knows she is ticklish there.

After what feels like an eternity he lifts his head just above hers and answers the question she had almost forgotten she asked. "You."

That is all he says before he continues his path down her body, pulling her blouse free of her skirt to kiss her stomach. He fumbles briefly at the hook clasp of her skirt, undoing it and slowly pulling down the zipper. She lets out a low sigh as he traces a line down her ass.

She lifts herself up onto her elbows as he pulls her skirt from her legs, then returns to see to her stockings. He is intent and focused and visibly pleased. He bends one leg toward him, kisses her bared knee. 

He lowers his head to her and she lets herself fall against the mattress again. She tries to relax as he eases in, kissing her thighs aimlessly, his laughter rumbling against her skin as she hooks her legs over his shoulders, pulling him closer to his destination. He wants this, and she won't refuse him. Her only regret is not getting more of his clothes off before he began. She still craves that contact, more even than his skilled tongue, and he still feels so far, all of this a relentless tease...

She runs her hands through his hair, the only direct contact she can claim now, and he laughs again, assuming she's ordering him to stop playing around. Fair enough -- perhaps it was a little of both. Taking the direction, he spreads her folds with his tongue, running one long stroke from her opening to her clit.

She lets out a shuddering breath from this first, hard contact, pulling on his hair. She laughs when he relents, smoothing it back down. 

She settles back against the mattress, tries to let go, let herself enjoy his touch. He was always good at this, loved being good for her -- she hadn't forgotten exactly, but she hadn't allowed herself to remember, either. Just thinking about it, she aches for him, and he is right here. Right here and driving her insane -- absurd to start missing him now.

He circles and teases her clit with the tip of his tongue, backing off and lapping at it, harder, from both sides, exploring lower, repeating it all again. She holds nothing back, she never had, and he is attuned to the changes in her breathing, knows too well what gets her there, what maddeningly keeps her at bay. Perhaps they had not been together long, but damned if they hadn't learned everything about each other's bodies in that time.

She feels her clit swollen and hard as he sucks it in his mouth now, his lips like a vise, tongue alternately fluttering and lapping around it but never quite _there_. She groans, and when she twists his hair between his fingers now it is intentional. He backs off in response, flashing her a quick look -- she can tell from his eyes alone he is grinning devilishly. 

That grin swallows her whole, his tongue plunging inside her with no prelude. She rocks against him in response, encouraging him deeper, harder, setting a rhythm. He fucks her with his tongue while his fingers move to her clit, pressing harder than his tongue could, but still purposefully backing off before he takes her over the edge. 

"God, Kurt..." she mumbles, no longer in control of her thrusting up against him, or the irregular single spasm that presages but never brings about release.

He stops as suddenly as he began, lifting his head again to see her flushed and at his mercy. He kisses her thigh, never taking his eyes from hers, as he strokes his fingers downward, inserts one, then two, inside her.

He says nothing, just watches her, catalogues her responses as he moves inside her, occasionally slipping out to rub her clit, keeping her hard and wanting. She closes her eyes finally, half unable to bear the intensity of his gaze, his adoration, and half desperate to come.

She thinks again this is what she came for but this is not all she wants now and she doesn't deserve his -- _love_ \-- it is love in his eyes she cannot face, but she cannot stop it, it is not up to her. If he isn't careful her heart will explode before her body ever does and she can't, right now -- she can't --

Whether he understands this on some level or just wants to return to that other form of torment, he lowers his head and goes right for her clit, running his tongue roughly over it, circling gently with the tip, repeating, faster and faster. His fingers match the pace inside her, curling to press hard against her bone, while he takes her clit in his mouth again, and she's moaning and pressing herself to meet his every touch and he's there, _there_ finally, right where she needs him, and he wants her to come and he's grinding it into her and pulling it from her and finally she loses all control, convulsing all around him.

After a few moments he lets his fingers guide her through it, coaxing as many waves from her as he can, while he rises up to kiss her, swallowing her last murmurs of pleasure. He presses his body against her and she can feel his erection against her thigh and this, finally, is what she wanted -- to be enveloped by his love, if there is no escaping it.

When she starts to come back to her senses, she opens her mouth to him, drawing his tongue against hers, his mouth that tastes of loving her. He pulls back, smiling down at her lightly, his eyes seeking something from her. Confirmation that it was good he had, but perhaps some confirmation that it was _right_. She strokes his face gently, words failing her again.

She laughs suddenly and his eyes narrow in confusion until her fingers move over his mustache, wet from her. He kisses and nibbles at her fingertips his lips spreading into a grin as he lowers his lips to hers again.

"You trying to say I'm a messy eater?" he mumbles against her lips.

She laughs again, throwing her head back, exposing her neck to him. It is a free, unworried laugh and she pulls him closer, hugging him t0 her.

"Hmm?" he presses, a rumbling noise against her throat.

"I wouldn't want to imply I have any kind of problem with that," she says playfully, her hands on both sides of his head pulling him back to kiss her again.

And in a moment everything is serious, all slow, sensuous kisses and lingering touches. This is everything, everything, but she needs to feel him, and finally she pulls the flannel shirt free of him, and then the t-shirt beneath it. She runs her hands over his bared chest, the sparse silvery hairs there, his slighly paunchy stomach. Every inch of him as she remembered -- tried to forget. She lifts herself up enough to lift her own shirt over her head, falling and pulling him after her again to feel his skin pressed against hers at last. She sighs happily, kissing him and touching him and feeling him all over her.

Her fingers work at his belt buckle now, the button and fly of his jeans, and she thrusts them downward as well as she can, pinned as she is. She pushes his boxers down after them, her hands groping his bared ass, pulling him against her. He rolls off her and sits, and she feels irrationally bereft of his touch. But he yanks off his pants quickly and she unclasps and tosses her bra to the floor and in a moment they are lunging for one another and falling backward again, arms and legs embracing, as much skin pressed to skin as possible.

This alone is relief and she slows, happy just to kiss and feel and explore him, feeling no need to hurry this along now. But she feels his cock pressing against her again, and realizes he might be less content to wait.

"Hey," she whispers, her forehead pressed against his. "Come on." She maneuvers her legs to either side of his, pressing her pelvis up against him. "I want you inside me, Kurt."

He groans in response but doesn't hesitate, kissing her hard and pressing her back against the mattress as he reaches down to stroke and part her folds again, slowly guiding himself into her. As he pushes deeper, his lips move distractedly across hers, breathless, open-mouthed, gasping kisses.

She smiles, responding with short, playful pecks, her hands combing through his hair, then soothing over his back. 

When he regains his breath he whispers, "God you feel good, Diane."

This intimacy feels strange and new -- have they ever gone to bed together without tearing into one another? -- but not frighteningly so. He begins to move inside her, slow, shallow movements, and she matches him, doesn't challenge it to be more. They kiss sweetly again, rediscovering each other. This doesn't feel casual at all, but it feels right.

After a while she feels his breath coming more ragged now, knows the tension is building for him and they can't go on this way indefinitely, much as she would like to.

"You gonna come again?" he asks softly.

"I don't think so." She pulls back slightly, looks him in the eyes and smiles. "But it's okay."

He brushes her hair from her forehead tenderly, his other hand traveling downward, slipping between their bodies. He smiles back, but there is a devilish look to his. "I think you will."

 _Oh god_ , she thinks -- she is fairly certain she does not say it out loud -- as his fingertips ghost over her clit again, then explore deeper. At the same time he presses harder against her at the top of his next thrust, withdrawing further, moving faster.

 _Oh god, god, Kurt, Kurt..._ Soon he takes her to a place where she doesn't know whether she's saying anything coherent, she didn't think she would come again, could have gone all night fucking him in that lovely slow way without consequence, didn't need to, didn't care to -- but now he has set his mind to it with his usual tenacity and skill it's happening, she can feel it building from what feels like a deeper place than before, and all at once she's shuddering, screaming, clutching him to her as she comes. 

He sees her through it but her excitement and release have taken him most of the way there, he's only holding back now because he wants her to enjoy every last second and when she realizes this she could shake him. There is a selfishness to the considerate lover, too; she wants to give to him equally, see him undone with need and gratification. He should have been furious at her for coming over this way, so presumptuous, so heartless, and here he is still giving, giving, and she just needs him to _take_.

"Come on, come on," she urges him in what comes out as a growl, and she starts forcing a faster rhythm from below him, her hands on his ass pulling him against her, if he needs any more encouragement.

He does not.

He groans into her mouth and pushes against her, slow, hard strokes at first that make her gasp at the sudden intensity. She tries to match the pace he wants to set but he is soon erratic, moving faster and then one deep long thrust, over and over, until all she can do is hold on, her arms crossed around his back, alternately caressing him and digging her fingers into his skin. 

He burrows his head in her neck and this is as much a sign of his release as anything, she knows, and she holds him tightly against her. His breathing is hard and ragged in her ear and for a moment she cannot hear or see or feel anything but him and she means to say something like _come now_ but it comes out something more like _I love you_ in a breath, a sigh, lost in the roar that accompanies his orgasm.

She can feel him pulsing inside her and he relaxes, goes totally limp in her arms. She kisses his hair, his temple, holds his head against her with one hand and continues stroking his back with the other, needing him to stay like this as long as he likes. If he rolls off her in a moment she will feel bereft. She needs him to let go as he has allowed her to.

He doesn't move a muscle for long minutes, except senselessly to slide his lips over her neck. She closes her eyes, drowsily contented now.

When he does finally withdraw and roll onto his side, he pulls her with him to face him and kisses her again. She pulls herself closer, nudging one knee between his. 

He starts to say something, then lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. There weren't words for what had just happened, really. Anyway, neither needed to assure the other they had enjoyed it.

She laughs, too, that low, seductive laugh of hers, trailing playful nibbling kisses along his jaw.

"I'm going to be a wreck tomorrow," he says, feigning irritation. 

"Oh, your eight o'clock class," she laughs again, remorseless.

"I can just picture Miranda sitting in the back, laughing at me like she knows exactly why I'm yawning."

She must have flinched at the mention of the younger woman's name -- he doesn't say anything, his expression doesn't change, but he squeezes her arm gently, his thumb moving over her skin reassuringly. She cringes inwardly; she has no reason to be jealous, probably, and no right to be jealous, definitely. She had almost managed to forget this night began with a date with another man, their reunion intended as no more than a booty call.

She snuggles closer, pressing her forehead against his neck, trying to regain the playfulness and peace. "I have to be in court by 9:30, too."

"I guess we're in this together," he says lightly, running a hand through her hair, his chin resting on top of her head.

"Yeah." She smiles against his skin, but it is bittersweet already. She knows what tonight has been now. But she doesn't know what tomorrow will be.

After all, nothing has changed.


End file.
